


Hello

by cellard00rs



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Sibling Incest, Stancest Week 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:32:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: Ford keeps getting mysterious calls. Stancest Week Day 2: Adult Stans





	

The phone rings and Ford picks it up absentmindedly, “Hello, this is Stanford Pines.”

There’s no answer. He waits for one and then hears a click. He puts the phone down and forgets about it.

 

+

 

The phone rings and it takes Ford awhile to get to it. He’s still dabbing disinfectant on some gnome bites and he’s pretty irritable. He picks up and growls, “Hello?”

There’s a soft gasp and then a click. He looks at the phone and scowls, smacking it down back on the receiver with more force than necessary.

 

+

 

The phone rings and Ford lets out an annoyed moan. He shifts on his bed, hand still wrapped around himself. He’d been so close. He grumbles and sighs and slowly rolls up. Oh well, it wasn’t as if his personal, amorous attentions to himself were going to pay off anyway. He has to be in the right mood, the right frame of mind to really get off and no fantasy was truly grabbing his interest.

It didn’t used to be so difficult. Why, back when he was a teenager…

…no, no. Best not to think of that. He rubs at one of his extra fingers and grimaces. Bad enough that he’s physically abnormal, he doesn’t need to be reminded of how he’s also _mentally_ abnormal. After all, what kind of person gets off on a blood relative? A sibling? A twin and oh god, he can still recall those sticky sweet nights, those breathless, wild moments where he came so hard he saw stars, even as he stifled back moaning a name he knew he shouldn’t.

The ringing of the phone is a good distraction from these memories and he goes to it, picking up, his voice huskier than he intends, “Hello, Stanford Pines speaking.”

He hears nothing but soft breathing and he sighs, rubbing at his temple, “Hello?”

No answer, just breathing.

“Hello? Is anybody there?”

Again, nothing.

“Look…I can hear you breathing.”

The click is instant. Ford puts the receiver down and goes back to his bed. He lays there, heart still beating an odd tempo, dick still slightly hard. _Stanley_. Fuck, what brought _him_ to mind? Ford finds his hand drifting back downwards and he knows he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. It’s been _years_ , for fuck’s sake…

But he’s stroking himself, growing fuller, harder, balls drawing up as he envisions what he used to. Strong arms, square jaw, warm brown eyes and a rusty timbre that just…

_Yesssss, yeah, that’s it, Sixer. C’mon, c’mon, cum for me._

Ford does.

 

+

 

Everything with Bill is going so well! Ford is so lucky to have such a wonderful muse. To have someone actually appreciate him and understand the full scope of his intelligence. Someone who truly sees all that he’s capable of! He’s working feverishly over some calculations for the portal, sipping the coffee Fiddleford made and oh, _Fiddleford_.

Ugh! So annoying! How can his friend be so short sighted? He keeps trying to push Ford off this project and Ford doesn’t understand why. Get married? Have children? _Psssh_. Yeah, Right, Ford has no interest in such mundane endeavors. He’s not one of the common folk, not one of the middling sheep in the massive flock of society that’s focused on procreation, white picket fences…no, no, he’s an explorer, a genius! Bill understands that.

And it hurts. It hurts that Fiddleford, someone he respects and cares a great deal for, someone he trusts – can be so blind. So limited. Besides, even if – and this is a _strong_ if – Ford was interested in such things, there’s only one individual he can think of that he’d share that with and it’s ridiculous. That-that person isn’t even in his life. Not anymore. He isn’t even someone he wants to think about and he just needs to focus on these calculations, so of course, the phone rings.

He snarls and picks up, “Hello?”

Silence.

“Look, whoever this is – I am extremely busy with important matters! Matters that could change the very fabric of the known universe, so I don’t have time for-!”

 _Click_.

He damn near tosses the phone. Figures.

 

+

 

Fiddleford is gone and things are…strange.

Ford was furious when he first left. He told himself he didn’t need him, didn’t need _human_ friends. That Fiddleford obviously wasn’t worth a hot damn and only Bill was. Bill was his muse, his best friend, his confidant. Fiddleford was just some straggling hayseed obsessed with his doting family and ridiculous beliefs, but now…now, Ford’s not so sure…

He keeps waking up in weird places, not sure how he got there or even when he fell asleep. His head seems to ache all the time now, stomach raw and everything feels…off. Wrong. And Bill has been so standoffish…almost secretive and that’s not like him. He’s been so open before now, so effervescent. Before he was always so complimentary, but now he seems…impatient. Unhappy.

And Ford wants to please him, he really does, but he also…he almost… _doesn’t_. Like there’s this tugging inside him, in his gut, and he’s always relied on his mind, not stupid instincts, but…

The phone rings. He wonders if it’s Fiddleford. If it is…maybe he should apologize? Maybe he was…wrong? No, no he wasn’t wrong. He’s never wrong! Right? Right! But then maybe…

Ford licks his lips and picks up, voice shaking slightly, “H-hello?”

A huffed noise and Ford’s had a call like this before, hasn’t he? Is…is this Bill? Why would Bill call him? What’s going on and he finds himself asking, “Bill? Is…is that you?”

Nothing.

“F-Fiddleford?”

Still nothing.

“L-look…I-I don’t know who you are…or why you keep calling or even if you’re the same caller I’ve had before, but…I…I don’t think you should keep calling here…”

Finally something past breathing comes through. It’s a sob. Wet and weak and Ford’s eyes pinprick and he wants to hang up but instead, instead he asks softly, “What…what’s wrong?”

A sniffle, another choked noise and it’s deep, masculine, and maybe it is Fiddleford. But…no. It seems too heavy for that. The tone pitched a bit below Fiddleford’s range and Ford is sitting on the floor of his home, back against a wall, phone clutched in his hands and somehow, someway, this person on the other end is a comfort, a landline – even past their crying they seem… _real_.

More so than most things lately and Ford breathes in deep, “Hey, what’s…what’s your name? Huh? Can you just give me that? Are you someone I know or…?”

The sobs seem to grow worse and Ford feels awful and he doesn’t know why. His heart aches like someone is reaching inside his chest and crushing the vital organ and he whispers, “Come on, hey, shh, _shh_ …don’t… _don’t_ …”

Just another sob, a whimper, and he doesn’t know why he’s trying. The person on the other end is no doubt a stranger. Or maybe a trick. Why would someone trick him? Fiddleford…wouldn’t do that, would he? Nor Bill. Would Bill…do this? It doesn’t seem like something he’d do and this weird kinship with his mystery caller continues, “I don’t know what’s wrong or who you are or…or maybe I do…maybe we know one another, but…if…if you need help…”

A wrenching wail comes now and Ford looks at the phone in horror before he presses himself back to it, “Shh, _shh_ – calm down. _Calm down_ , alright? Just…tell me what’s wrong. I…I might just know what’s it’s like, because-”

There’s a loud clatter on the other end and Ford finds himself feeling frantic. The connection between him and the caller seems to be cut and he finds he needs it. He needs this mysterious person because, whether or not the caller needs help, Ford suddenly realizes _he_ does. _He needs help._ He needs someone and he’s never felt this way. Never felt so bereft and alone and he finds he's shouting, “WAIT! Wait, come back!”

The phone makes more noise on the other end of the line and Ford’s heart is in his throat when he hears a rough, “Hello?”

“Hello! Hello! I’m so glad you picked back up! I’m so glad you-!”

“Uh. Sorry to disappoint, pal. But I ain’t the one who called ya,” the voice grumbles, “Name’s Gus and I just picked up ‘cause the bozo I lent the phone to just took off.”

“H-he?” Ford breathes, “So…it’s a man.”

“Sure it’s a man. Don’tcha know who’s callin’ ya?” Gus snorts and Ford sighs, feeling oddly broken, tone fragile, “No. He…he didn’t say anything.”

“Eh, I gave ‘im privacy. Thought he’d at least say _sumpin_ ’! Whatta waste! Guy says he needs ta make a call, makes it seem all urgent, says he can’t afford to go to the pay phone and this is what I get. Gotta stop havin’ such a bleedin’ heart. This is a business!”

“A business?”

“Yeah,” Gus grunts, “Yer talkin’ to the head bartender of The Bourbon Room.”

“T-the Bourbon Room?”

“Yeah, we’re a dive bar offa Canal Street.”

“Canal Street in…?”

“Animas, New Mexico.”

“I-I see,” Ford hums and he decides to press his luck, “The, ah, ‘bozo’ as you put it who called me…what did he look like?”

“I don’t know. Just some guy,” Gus offers unhelpfully, “Brown hair…too long. Kinda thick in the body. Needed a shave, sort of smelled…like I said, a bozo. Or maybe a bum. Might be way he didn’t have enough money to make this call…this ain’t collect, right?”

“No, I don’t believe so. Thank you for the information, Gus. Have a good evening,” Ford hangs up and sits there, wondering, wondering, wondering who his mystery caller is.

 

+

 

No one can be trusted. He can’t trust himself. Bill…is Bill _listening_? Can he hear his thoughts? He’s been inside his mind, so he probably can and he could be anywhere…in the windows, in the floors and Ford is pacing and pacing. His whole body aches and his hair is a greasy mess. His clothes smell and feel gross and he wants to shower, but Bill could be in the water supply.

He could get into Ford’s mouth and then go down his throat and tear out his insides and no, no how does that make any sense? That makes no sense and he looks at the phone and he picks it up and listens to the dial tone. It’s constant and close to reassuring. He puts it down. He picks it up. He puts it down again. Why is he drawn to the phone?

Is…is Bill doing this? Why does he want Ford to mess with the phone? Who would Bill call and would he use Ford to do it and Ford should just yank the accursed thing from the wall. He’s locked all the doors, bolted all the windows. The phone is the only line in now and he should dismantle it piece by piece and…

Brown hair. Thick body.

The words come to mind. Words spoken by a…what was his name? Grant? Gary? Gustin? _Fool_! Gustin isn’t even a name! Is it? Is it! No, no… _Gus_. That was it. Gus said those words and Ford forgot about them, but they come up now and he was from New Mexico. New Mexico. New Mexico is in the United States of America and he’s on Earth and he’s not near the portal and…

He picks up the phone again, squeezes the receiver, squeezes it so hard his hand hurts. He feels like he could break it and brown hair, thick body…that deep sob on the other end, so familiar but how is it familiar? Not Fiddleford. Had to be a stranger. Had to be. He doesn’t know anyone in New Mexico. Does Bill care about New Mexico? Why would Bill care about New Mexico and oh god, he’s dying, he’s dying, he’s lost his mind…

 _Trust_.

The word just floats up to him and the dial tone is screaming out of the phone. _Trust_. Yes. He needs someone he can _trust_. Who? Who can he…? He dials a number he barely remembers and a soft, feminine voice comes through, “Hello?”

“M…mother?”

“Stanford?” she replies with some surprise, “Sweetie, is that you?”

Ford takes a while to answer and just when she’s clearly about to ask again, he does his best to sound normal, “Yes, it’s me. I…I have a most important question for you.”

“Of course! Anything!”

“Have….have you heard from Stanley?”

There’s an awkward pause and it feels like nails are being driven into Ford’s eyes, his throat, his heart, “I need to talk to him. It’s of the utmost importance!”

“Stanley?” she asks, disbelieving and he nods even though she cannot see him, “Yes, yes please! It’s urgent.”

“Um, well…okay, sweetheart. Lemme check,” he hears her moving things around on the other end and then a gentle, “Ah, okay – last post card I got from him, he was in Dead End Flats, New Mexico…”

Ford wavers on his feet and the phone falls form his grip as he collapses, tears streaming down his face. New Mexico. Brown hair. Thick body.

Of course.

_Of course._


End file.
